


Dumber Than a Sack of Hair

by Fantasyenabler



Series: Too Stupid for Words [1]
Category: Marvel, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: 5000-10000 Words, First Time, M/M, Series, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-11
Updated: 2010-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-07 21:36:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantasyenabler/pseuds/Fantasyenabler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the only way to deal with the whole X-Man ping-pong ball lifestyle is to get drunk and not think for a while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _X-Men_ 199 may joss all of this, but I won't care if you don't. Also, Cable's island nation is called "Providence," in case you're wondering, and Scott Lobdell started the tradition of Bobby perpetually being carded. I'm continuing that here.

Sam knows that just because his background is third generation Kentucky coal-miner, people assume that his daddy was the kind of man who spouted platitudes at the drop of a John Deere cap. Sam does his best to dissuade people of this homely man's notion, but he has to admit that his daddy did have a favorite saying or two back in the day.

"Never forget your past" was one, and it's one that Sam does his best to keep faith with, no matter how crazy painful life gets. The other was, "There're two kinds of stupid in this world: Brave-stupid and Stupid-stupid. Always find out which one you're dealing with before you let it take you somewhere."

Getting drunk while possessing the ability to blast through walls has always struck Sam as pretty damn "stupid-stupid," so he does his best not to go that way too often. Mutant life being what it is though, there are times when it not only feels "smart-smart," but like it might be the best way to stay "sane-sane."

Like when you lose thousands of innocent people to an alien thought-weapon, all because some idiot psychopath, whom you personally decided didn't need babysitting, chose the perfect moment to stab your team in its collective back.

Like when you have to watch the man who used to be the center of your world go through telepathic hell to save what was left of his island nation.

Like when that same man stands and suffers on the deck of the Conquistador and you don't dare approach because that would mean undoing years of establishing a healthy distance.

Yeah, this qualifies as one of those times, Sam decides as he works on his second beer.

Besides, it was almost worth the trip into Manhattan just to watch Bobby Drake play three rounds of "I swear to God my ID isn't fake" with the tattooed behemoth behind the bar. The same behemoth who served Sam without even looking at him.

Twice.

Sam tries not to chuckle as Bobby throws his hands up in frustration. Really, he does.

Unfortunately, he doesn't quite succeed.

Bobby pivots and scowls at him before turning back to the behemoth, who is looking at Bobby's New York driver's license like he is holding plutonium, or maybe a leaky container of Ebola. He squints his eyes at it and Bobby in turn before saying, "It's too new looking. If you're really as old as you say you are, and if the expiration date on this is right, it shouldn't be so new looking."

Bobby clenches his hands behind his back, small icicles hanging off a couple of fingers. "I had to have my old one replaced," he says. "It got ruined."

The behemoth snorts and cocks his head. "Really?" he asks. "How?"

Sam can see Bobby's just itching to say, "I'm an ice mutant and my powers destroy anything I'm wearing that isn't made out of unstable molecules." He can also see that Bobby's itching to demonstrate on a piece of clothing, like maybe the behemoth's pants.

So Sam's surprised when Bobby swallows and says instead, "My ex-girlfriend got pissed at me and stole my wallet. She fed everything in it into an industrial strength paper shredder. The only thing I got back was the wallet itself. She mailed it to me."

Sam isn't the only one surprised. The behemoth considers this for a moment before handing the license back over. He then brings forth a beer and takes the money Bobby had left lying on the counter. Squinting in their direction once more, he nods at the two of them and heads off to serve a customer at the other end of the bar.

Sam leans in as Bobby takes a drink of his hard-won beer. "That was an amazing lie," he says, trying to stand close without looming over the smaller man. "You managed to play exactly the right chord with that fella."

"Who says it was a lie?" Bobby wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, then starts digging at the edge of his beer bottle's label. "You know about the people who've been interested in me lately. Does that sound like something Mystique would think twice about doing?"

Sam moves back as he shakes his head. No, it really doesn't. It's actually the kind of behavior Sam would consider appalling, so obviously, it's something Mystique would do. It's right up there with Mystique sniffing around Bobby ever since Northstar and Aurora nearly killed him. Sam can't say that seeing that has made him all that happy either.

All of which has been very interesting to Sam. He barely paid any attention to whom Bobby dated the last time they were on the same X-team. To Sam's X-rookie self, the only thing that mattered about Bobby then was that he was the least intimidating of all the veterans.

Still, even without that information, Sam feels he has enough to come to one particular conclusion.

Bobby's just taking another drink when Sam says, "You know, you have to have the worst luck with women I've ever seen."

Bobby doesn't spew, but it's a near thing. "God," he says when he can breathe again, his expression harder and colder than it would have been back when they used to hang together. "Did you plan that or what?"

"Maybe." Sam grins around a drink of his own beer, and shrugs at his friend, but the truth is he doesn't know why he said that. He really didn't plan that. He thinks if anything planned that, it had to be his second beer.

Evil things they are, he thinks as he drinks some more.

Bobby scowls at him for a second, then looks thoughtfully down the bar at the behemoth bartender who's watching them as he fills another customer's order. A film of ice forms on Bobby's beer as he asks, "Were you in any rush to get back to the Conquistador tonight?"

An image of Nathan simultaneously holding himself together and apart from everyone, in that way only a few people could see through, flashes across Sam's mind. He finishes his evil beer and says, "No, I can't say that I was. Why? What were you thinking?"

"I'm thinking that I don't feel like dealing with any more bartenders tonight." He drinks and the film of ice recedes. "I'm thinking we should get out of here and see if we have enough money between us for a cheap hotel room and a convenience store run."

There's something in Bobby's voice that sets off what Tabby used to call Sam's "Team Leader Spidey-Sense." He places his empty beer bottle carefully on the counter and turns square to face the other man. "How drunk are you planning on getting tonight?" he asks.

Bobby doesn't answer. He just takes a long drink, enough to finish his own beer, before setting it down on the counter, hard. "Drunk," he says. "I think after Providence, we're entitled. Don't you?"

Sam sighs, knowing there's a logical protest waiting on the tip of his tongue.

He can't get it out though, because each time he tries, he keeps hearing his own voice say to Karima, _Creed's in stasis. He can't do a thing._

Bobby looks at him impatiently. "Well?" he asks, his body tense, like every one of his muscles are waiting to shoot out the door.

Sam's protests die a stillborn death. He exhales out their unsaid corpses and lets himself nod in agreement.

The nod's all Bobby needs. He's heading for the door like a man who expects it not to be there in a few seconds.

Sam follows, shaking his head. Somewhere in the back of his brain, that "Spidey-Sense" is still talking to him, and it's hard not to listen.

It sounds suspiciously like his daddy used to when he was trying to warn Sam away from something stupid.


	2. Part Two of "Dumber Than A Sack of Hair"; Iceman/Cannonball NC-17 Slash

The furniture in the hotel room manages the decorating hat trick of being old, cheap, and mismatched. The comforter on the double bed looks thin and ill-used, and Sam can smell the carpet while standing straight up. He grimaces as he walks further in, but Bobby's only response is to head for the bathroom, make some ice in the sink, and shuck the twelve-packs out of the paper bags.

Before Sam knows it, there's a beer in his hand, a bad horror movie on the television, and he and Bobby are sitting on the bed partaking in some heavy drinking. There's still a part of Sam that isn't totally onboard with this. He decides to ignore it until all parts of him are too drunk to put up much of a fight about anything.

He's somewhere close to that point when the horror movie drags its plot to an awful end. Bobby's sprawling on his stomach across his half of the bed, bare feet kicking at a pillow, and making no moves like he's thinking of getting up and changing the channel. The hem of his _Xavier's_ tee shirt has climbed out of his jeans and bunched up around his slim abdomen, and he's humming along with the alt-metal song covering the movie's end credits in an off-key way that bears absolutely no resemblance to the original.

Like a lot of things Bobby does, it'd be annoying if it wasn't so cute. Not that Sam would ever say that out loud. "Cute" is not a word you use for one of your guy friends. It's also not a word any guy wants to hear applied to him. At least not any guy over the age of eleven.

Though moments like this do make Sam wonder if Bobby's actually aging. If he's not going to appear to be in his early twenties forever, perpetually carded while the rest of them mature and change right on past him.

Sam's still wondering that when he realizes he's being stared at.

"So," Bobby says, giving Sam an odd look, his face resting on his arms and his feet no longer kicking. "I have bad luck with women, huh?"

Sam's stomach heaves for a moment, like it's rejecting the beer, but that doesn't stop him from going against his better judgement and answering. "The worst, actually. The worst luck I've ever seen."

"'The worst.'" Bobby says the word like he's trying to recall its meaning, smirking at Sam the entire time. "Now, how can you make a statement like that? Don't you need to analyze data or something? You know, graphs, pie charts, that sort of thing? I seem to remember the professors making a big deal out of that stuff back when I was getting my accounting degree."

Sam doesn't say that pie charts weren't exactly high on the agenda when Nathan was training him to be X-Force's tactical leader. He figures that what he does have to say should be enough to get his point across.

"How else do you explain attracting the attention of somebody like Mystique, Bobby? She's a career criminal, on a team full of people who've been criminals themselves, people just like her…and the person she sets her sights on is you?" Sam shakes his head. "If that's not bad luck, I don't know what it is."

"Oh, come on, Sam." Bobby rolls onto his back like he's suddenly fascinated by the ceiling. "It's not that bad. It's not like she doesn't listen to me when I tell her no or something."

Sam snorts without really meaning to; he grabs his latest beer off the nightstand. "She's being persistent then."

Bobby doesn't turn away from the ceiling, but he nods his head several times. "She is. She really, really is," he says, nodding some more.

He doesn't say anything else, and Sam takes a drink of his beer, his mind barely aware that there's an infomercial playing on the TV now, something involving dried food and plastic bags. He watches as Bobby throws an arm over his eyes, no longer interested by what he sees in the ceiling. His other arm comes to rest on his abdomen, his fingers touching the bare skin still exposed by his tee shirt, his palm resting just above the top button of his jeans.

Sam leans back against the cheap wooden headboard and tries to overlook the man on the bed beside him to focus on the TV and the joys of dried food, which is actually looking more like dehydrated food. There're bananas and smoked meats and…apricots? Yes, apricots. They always dehydrate apricots for some reason…

The apricots go in the plastic bag and Sam sees instead the moments after the end of the Beaubier twins' mind-controlled attack on the mansion. Sam has Bobby in his arms, carrying him to the infirmary, yelling back over his own bare shoulder at Nathan that it's good to see him. The twins' attack had shredded Sam's uniform the same way it had destroyed Bobby's, so he can feel Bobby's cold arm where it's flung around his neck and across his shoulders. Bobby's whole body feels cold, even through the drapery Sam wrapped around him, and although Sam knows that Bobby's lower body temperature doesn't bother him, Sam still wants to rub the skin he sees and try to warm it up to something approaching a more normal temperature for life.

"You know, I maybe haven't been pushing her away as hard as I should be."

Battle-trained reflexes are all that keep Sam from dropping his beer and adding to the Rorschach pattern of stains on the comforter. He's glad that Bobby's eyes are still covered because he knows he's gaping when he asks, "What? Why?"

Bobby shifts on the bed, like it's spontaneously growing spikes underneath him. "Haven't you ever…I mean…" He stops, stills himself, and sighs. "It's because Mystique's a shapeshifter."

The beer kicks at Sam's stomach again, or at least he thinks it's the beer. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"She can…she…" Bobby uncovers his eyes, but doesn't turn his gaze away from the ceiling. "Haven't you ever wanted something, but not wanted people to know that you want it? With…with someone like Mystique, you can ask for, and have, just about anything." He takes a deep breath and exhales it loudly. "And no one has to know."

The words, _Can I know?_ pop into Sam's head. Quickly though, he pushes them aside, because he realizes there are other more important words Bobby needs to hear right now. "The problem with all of that is: it only works if you can trust her."

"Yeah," Bobby says, nodding his head, but still not looking at Sam. "Which is why I haven't actually done anything with her. As I said, I just haven't been pushing her away hard enough. Which I realize I need to change. Like, immediately."

Sam doesn't say anything to that, mainly because he doesn't know quite what to say. _Yes, you damn well need to,_ or some other variation of that sentiment?

In any case, Bobby settles and gets quiet, leading Sam to think that maybe he doesn't need to say something. That maybe now that they've talked it out, Bobby wants him to let the subject go.

So he returns his attention to the television. Apricots, he tells himself, he should really go back to thinking about the apricots.

Think about the apricots. The apricots.

Fuck the apricots.

"What could you possibly want that would be worth putting yourself in the hands of someone like that?" he hears himself asking. "I mean, someone like Mystique?"

Bobby finally gives up staring at the ceiling to stare at Sam. "I don't think you'd understand," he says, the words dragging out of him.

"Why?" Sam asks, his own words flying. "Bobby, I'm not the insecure novice I was the first time we worked together. In case no one's told you, after I went back to X-Force, that team got pretty damn ugly. I have seen and done things I know the X-Men wouldn't consider in a million years. So I think you can tell me whatever it is, and believe me when I say I'm not going to react the way you're probably imagining."

Bobby's shaking his head, has been almost since Sam started talking, until something he sees in Sam's face stops him. "Okay," he says. He sits up a bit; his body's turned towards Sam, but his eyes are focused on a spot on the wall behind the headboard. "You asked for it.

"Once upon a time," he says, smirking at the wall, "back when Rogue and I were car trip buddies, she told me that Momma Mystique doesn't necessarily consider herself to be either a woman or a man, that she goes back and forth between the sexes." He takes a deep breath, holds it, then lets it go. "Rogue also told me that Mystique likes being a man just as much as she likes being a woman. Particularly because it leaves it open for her to have all kinds of sex. With all kinds of partners."

Bobby pauses and his eyes flicker over from the wall to Sam's face. Sam guesses he must be watching for some sort of a reaction. "So," Bobby says. "Is that what you thought you were going to hear?"

Sam nods, then shakes his head, then nods again, because to be honest, he isn't really sure. He knows that he had an idea about it, but at the moment, his thoughts are too busy chasing each other around his brain for him to remember what it was.

They finally stop though, and when they do, the impact of the resulting idea hits him so hard, all he can do is say, "Huh."

Bobby stares at him like he's mutated another head. "'Huh,'" he says. "I tell you something like that and all you can say is 'Huh'?"

"Yeah. Well, no." Progress, he tells himself. Try to use larger words. "I mean, it's sort of funny, if you think about it." Okay, maybe not those words…

Especially since Bobby looks like he's crossing over from just "confused" to "confused and pissed." "How?" he asks.

Sam takes a deep breath, and feels himself get real still. Slowly, he lets the breath out before he speaks. "Because you didn't need to consider trusting someone like Mystique. If you wanted to, you could have asked somebody closer to you."

He reaches out and touches Bobby's arm. Bobby's skin is cold and Sam rubs his fingers across it a few times. "A lot closer."

Bobby lowers his eyes to Sam's moving fingers, his expression still a cross between aggravation and puzzlement. Sam almost pulls back, wondering if he's about to receive a very bad case of frostbite, until suddenly Bobby's breathing hitches and the aggravation fades.

Bobby's quiet when he finally speaks. "This close?" he asks.

"Yeah," Sam says, putting his beer back on the nightstand. "This close. Although we could be closer." He edges over across the comforter, watching and waiting to see if Bobby's going to slide away.

When he doesn't, Sam leans in and kisses him.

Then he nearly falls over when Bobby leans in and kisses him right back.

Thankfully, Sam has a lot of experience when it comes to righting himself, and getting his forward momentum moving in a certain direction.

 


	3. Part Three of "Dumber Than a Sack of Hair"; Iceman/Cannonball NC-17 Slash

The television's still playing and Sam can hear a bottle clink against something hard as he and Bobby roll together, but Sam can't make himself care about either of those distractions at the moment. He knows he should care, that he should be mentally counting the empties that litter the room, that he should be computing precisely how polluted and stupid they both are, but again, he can't make himself do it. He doesn't want to think about the X-Men, and team dynamics, and how screwed up screwing a teammate can be, and he especially doesn't want to think about how Bobby has been the one friend he can count on ever since he joined Rogue and her unnamed oddball squad.

It's just too close to reminding him of the messes he made when he was part of X-Force.

Messes he brushes shoulders with each and every day Nathan remains on Rogue's team.

Thankfully, touching Bobby feels nothing like touching Nathan. The cold skin's one big difference, and like before, Sam finds that the more of it he uncovers, the more he wants to rub and push against it, try to force it to pink up. Bobby's pale in a way Sam's never seen before, like he doesn't actually have any blood in his veins. Something about that makes Sam stroke each inch of skin even harder, some part of him thinking that if he were to do any less, he might as well not be touching Bobby at all.

Bobby manages to get in some rubbing of his own. He pulls Sam down flush against him once they're both naked, and kisses Sam's skin where he can. Sam ends up setting the rhythm though. Bobby's the novice here, and to his credit, he knows it. He stops trying to set the pace and lets Sam have it, his own touches following a step behind, willing to wait and see where Sam's will lead them.

Sam leads them up to Bobby's neck, where he bites and kisses at the pulse point. He tugs Bobby's hair to pull his head back, to give a better angle of attack, and Bobby gives way, moaning as the edge of Sam's teeth makes contact. Sam nips again, and feels Bobby press up sharply, forcing Sam to control his own moans as Bobby's erection slides against Sam's long torso. He muffles the sound against the skin he's kissing, skin he begins biting and blowing as Bobby thrusts against him some more. Sam's own cock has found a place pressed in the space underneath Bobby's balls, and each upward motion rubs them against him, urging his mouth and hands to work harder with every successively fiercer push.

Fierce is the way it stays, as they grab and press at each other's bodies. Bobby's small for an X-Man, and Sam's broader mass and extra four-inches of height means he can cover the other man, wrap him up in his arms, feel him at every possible point of contact, but Sam knows he doesn't automatically have the advantage here. Bobby packs a lot of tight muscle into an average height, average guy kind of frame, and his thrusts practically beg Sam's body to push down hard, to give it all the power he can, to make sure they both feel it.

Sam's feeling it enough to be able to tell that he's close to it being over, and he kisses his way up the side of Bobby's jaw and latches on to his mouth. He tongues his way inside, forcing in even as his hips push tightly against Bobby's skin, his muscles thrusting relentlessly as orgasm draws near. Bobby arches up, his hands gripping at Sam's back, and Sam hopes it means he's close too. Sam's breath draws short, and he has to pull his mouth up to breathe and pant, giving Bobby the chance to mark Sam's neck with some bites of his own. The sharp sting causes something in Sam's chest to hitch, in his body to tighten, and before he knows it, he's letting it go, letting it spill, and falling onto Bobby as their bodies collapse together.

Sam breathes deeply as he lies still, his sweaty body half-covering the man underneath him, his head resting on Bobby's shoulder, turned so he can see his face. Bobby's eyes are closed, his breathing's even, and his body feels like he's relaxing into sleep, so Sam can only assume that the stickiness between them doesn't just belong to him.

Still, he thinks maybe he should say something, maybe check to make sure everything's all right.

He thinks better of it though when he feels his own sleep coming upon him. After all, there'll be time to do that later.

He shifts his arm where it's flung across Bobby's chest and closes his eyes.

Right before he does, he notices that underneath his fingers, the skin on Bobby's chest has turned a shade of pink.

 


	4. Part Four of "Dumber Than a Sack of Hair"; Iceman/Cannonball NC-17 Slash

Sam wakes up the next morning with the sun glaring in through the curtains, the television droning annoyingly, and the pounding in his head trying desperately to kill him. His mouth tastes like he hasn't drunk any water in years, and he's sure his breath could stop the Hulk at twelve paces. Meanwhile, opening his eyes has become an incredibly painful process, and most of the major muscle groups in his body act as if they'd like permission to just give up and die.

On the whole, he feels like the last time he was stupid enough to get this drunk. His regularly scheduled hangover has arrived in full force, and all of the usual symptoms have come out to play.

The only thing that makes it different is that he didn't get to have sex last time.

At least, he's fairly sure that's the only thing. Right now, he's having the feeling that some moments are coming back to him a little less clearly than he'd like them to.

He squints his eyes open at his surroundings and pries his cheek off of Bobby's shoulder. The room's more cluttered than he remembered, the number of empty beer bottles more massive. They're going to need to do one hell of a clean up before they check out, he thinks. There is no way he's leaving someone else to straighten up this mess. It's not right, no matter how drunk they may have gotten the night before.

And apparently they got pretty drunk, if what he's seeing is any indication.

He lays his head back down on Bobby's shoulder, not quite ready to try to move again. Bobby's still dead to the world, the bulk of his body not budging at all, his chest barely shifting to breathe. He's pale and cold again, and it occurs to Sam that if he were to walk in this room without knowing about mutant powers, he'd think Bobby was a corpse, or at least well on his way there.

He wonders what that says about anything. Particularly his own state of mind this morning.

He stares at Bobby's neck, at the batch of marks he left on Bobby's skin last night. His skull's pounding too hard for him to focus, and he can scarcely recall making them, but he thinks he remembers that Bobby enjoyed receiving them. He thinks he does anyway…

Sam rubs his aching head. He wonders if a hotel like this sells aspirin at the front desk.

Probably not, but then his real preference would be for a telepath, one that could tell him for certain what happened last night.

One that could tell him what Bobby's going to say when he wakes up and remembers.

He sighs and turns towards the droning television. The local morning news is on, and the anchors are going through the top stories, jumping back and forth between them, deaths, wars, crimes, and crises. There's nothing on what happened on Providence, but then he didn't expect there to be. That was days ago, so it's already passed out of the news cycle. Replaced by other newer disasters with large death tolls and the "heroes" that barely caused a dent in them.

It's the story of his life, he thinks.

Really, it is.

He looks at the screen, watching without listening, as the constant carnage slowly grows more and more familiar, and he realizes.

This is the way it is for the X-Men. Always live and in the center of it all. Like the videofeeds on the news.

Bouncing back and forth from one disaster to another. Never really having the time to process the results. Just moving forward to wherever the next big villain takes them.

Is it any wonder, he thinks, that they end up with messes for personal lives? That they hurt each other and neglect each other until they finally lose what they have?

Is it any wonder that they sometimes can't help being stupid?

He shakes his head, cringing when that sets off painful tremors.

He really doesn't want that to be so this time, but he supposes he'll accept it if he has to.

If he has to.

He needs to know if he has to.

"Bobby," he says, shifting back over to him and shaking his shoulder. "C'mon, wake up, would ya?"

Bobby blinks, but otherwise gives no sign of waking. Sam huffs and pokes at Bobby's side. "C'mon," he says again. "I'm not going to worry about this by myself. If I have to be awake and thinking, you do too. So, c'mon!"

Bobby shakes his head, then frowns and stops. "Okay, okay," he says. "I'm awake. I'm awake." He opens his eyes, lifts his head, and glances around the room. "God," he says, rubbing at his eyes and taking in the mess. "How long 'till checkout time?"

Sam isn't sure of what he just heard. "'How long 'till checkout time?' That's the only thing you want to ask about right now?"

Bobby nods his head, slowly, obviously not wanting to aggravate his own monster hangover. "Yeah," he says. "That's all I'm going to ask." He closes his eyes, then opens them like it hurts him to do so. "Why? What did you expect me to ask?"

A million answers seem to fly through Sam's head, ranging from _Why are we naked?_ to _What the Hell did you do to me, you bastard?_, but ultimately he decides to settle on, "How about 'What happens next'? Aren't you interested at all in that?"

Bobby's head snaps up with a grimace. "Of course, I am, but I thought…" He looks away, stroking absently at the marks on his neck. "I thought you were, you know, just doing me a favor last night. Giving me what I wanted so I wouldn't have to risk going to somebody else."

Sam feels his stomach sinking. He knows for certain that this time it's not the beer. "A favor?" he asks. "That's all it was to you?"

Bobby turns back and his hand stills. His fingers rest right on top of the darkest of the marks, and his voice is quiet when he asks, "Wasn't that all it was to you?"

Sam watches Bobby's hand, and takes a moment to wonder at its position. The reasons behind the difference between "Stupid-stupid" and "Brave-stupid" flash through his mind, and it only takes another moment for him to decide they're worth embracing. "No," he says. "That wasn't all it was to me. I was hoping it was the start of something more. A lot more, actually."

Bobby drops his hand and slides closer. "Really?" he asks, carefully sitting up, his chest nearly brushing Sam's arm. Sam nods, holding his breath and waiting. "Huh," Bobby says.

Then he leans in and kisses him.

Sam makes sure he almost knocks him over when he kisses him right back.

They roll across the bed, more slowly than they did pre-hangovers, and Sam's glad that they have about three hours until checkout time. He still wants to clean up the room, but more importantly, he doesn't want to have to worry about housekeeping interrupting.

He doesn't think they'll understand that even the stupid deserve to get lucky.

It's an idea he's only just started believing in himself.

Fin.


End file.
